Surrender the Day
by secretaryofsillywalks
Summary: Regulus Black is having a rough day. Some near death experiences, two abductions, a scorpion pit and detention later, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, the whole world has gone crazy. Perhaps he's just being dramatic again. undergoing rewrite


**I do not own Harry Potter.**

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Regulus Arcturus Black, the attractive, athletic, charming, pureblooded heir to the Black Family fortune, was not a morning person. His brother, back when had been a part of the family and before he disgraced their ancient and noble name, used to say Regulus was "not an anything person". This, of course, had lead to many arguments over Regulus Arcturus Black's finicky, pessimistic nature.

There was the time Regulus had defended his stance against pickling foods quiet vigorously, leading to Regulus yelling "How does that taste!" while rather savagely stuffing pickled eggs into his brother's mouth. Then there was the time Regulus defended his right to despise and loath baby animals that had fur, which ended with Sirius covered in fleas and contracting Cat-Scratch Fever. Yes, Sirius Black doubted his younger brother's ability to like anything, claiming he was soulless and cold hearted. This was not true though.

Regulus liked and enjoyed many things. He was a Quidditch person, a visit-the-beach-for-holiday person, a syrup person.

He was not, however, a morning person.

Every Slytherin knew this. It was common knowledge. Tales of Regulus' grumpy morning disposition were quite legendary amongst the green and silver clad students. Regulus recalled, through his muddled morning mind, that he had threatened to drown the next person who crossed him before nine a.m., the time classes officially started. Surely, the person who was currently poking his side knew of this threat. Surely, said person knew it was currently before nine in the morning.

Regulus pulled up the comforter, which had bunched around his waist sometime during the night, and covered his face, groaning, in an effort to ignore the poking. When it did not stop, he rolled over, the dark green blanket twisting around him and uncovering a tanned leg, the lower half of which was now hanging lazily over the edge of the mattress. He heard a huff and shuffling footsteps moving from his bedside. Regulus smiled into his blanket, relieved, and fell back into a light and peaceful slumber.

He did not know how long he had been asleep. It was not nearly long enough, in his opinion. It felt like seconds before someone had roughly shaken him awake. He wrinkled his nose in anger and groggily opened his eyes. From his green cocoon, that is what his blanket was now, wrapped snuggly around his body, he glared at the offender. One Barty Crouch Junior.

Growling, Regulus attempted to throw the sheets off him in an overly dramatic fashion. He had to settle for trying to extract himself from the maze of blanket and sheets tangled about him in a slow and non-dramatic way while Barty chuckled in the background. Regulus put more force than was necessary into the task, for he desired greatly to set Barty on fire. How dare he wake him up at such an early hour!

"Don't glare at me Reggie! I'm only looking out for your interests!" Barty said, straightening his tie. Regulus sneered. Barty knew he hated being called Reggie. It was so low class and uncouth; it was what his brother had called him; it was the name the Muggles girls down the street called out teasingly. He hated being called Reggie.

"If you were truly "looking out for my interests"", Regulus rolled his light eyes, a famous trait in his family, "Then you'd let me sleep."

Barty merely snorted and tousled his hair. "Oh, hush. Breakfast will be over in twenty minutes."

"I don't eat breakfast. I'm not a breakfast person." Regulus said, in a way that indicated he was adding a silent and accusatory "You know this" at the end.

Regulus began to settle back under the covers. Twenty minutes left of breakfast meant fifteen more minutes, he could sleep. His eyes were fluttering shut when a pillow hit him.

"Regulus! Come on, get up! If you go back to sleep I'm going to hex you. You'll never be able to grow a proper beard…oh wait, you can't even do that now. "

"Hmmwg mmg wwmgh wmgghk mmnnfgh ffsbb!" Regulus cried out at Barty's cruel joke. Regulus face was smashed into his pillow, impeding his ability to speak clearly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Barty asked, amusement coloring his voice.

Regulus removed his face from his beloved green pillow, his favorite pillow, his silk pillow, and glared at his friend. "I said leave me alone and let me sleep!" Regulus snapped, adding "In Mermish," as an afterthought. He did sit up, however, if only to appease Barty for the moment.

What he had really said was "How dare you make fun of my inability to grow a proper beard!"

Barty often made fun of Regulus for his pitifully lacking facial hair. Regulus was resigned to looking like one of the Musketeers or a Spanish Conquistador every time he went a month or two without shaving. It was the curse of his beauty – his naturally olive skin and straight nose combined with his dark wavy hair. Regulus knew he was good looking, just as he knew that his beard was more like a thin, sparse goatee. His brother had the same problem. As did his father and his uncle. It was the curse of being a Black – perhaps the only downfall. Stick a bicorn hat on his head and he looked like he should be sailing the seven seas conquering land, killing natives, and gaining coin while wielding an impressive sword.

Regulus' sleepy gaze traveled toward the bed of Rabastan, who could not go a day without shaving his face. Regulus was rather jealous of Rabastan's ability to grow a glorious, luscious beard. Rabastan did not look like a swashbuckler at all. He looked something like a glorious mountain Viking, or maybe a lumberjack. Either way, Regulus was envious of Rabastan's manly beard (though he was not envious of the overly hairy arms and the need to wax his eyebrows to prevent a unibrow).

"You aren't imagining Rabastan's beard on you, are you?"

Regulus answered "of course not" too quickly and too harshly. Barty, for all his faults, knew Regulus well.

Barty was giving him a look. _That_ look. It was the look Barty often Regulus when he had done or said something particularly peculiar. The first time he had gotten that look was on the Hogwarts Express when he declared his disdain for Chocolate Frogs. It was not that Regulus didn't like chocolate – he just did not feel comfortable eating something infused with magic. You should not eat magic. Regulus did not think that was safe.

"Right. Well, you're going to miss class -"

"Then so be it!" Regulus cried out, interrupting the other. He flung himself to the floor and clutched the hem of Barty's robe. "If I have to miss class just so I can be with the love of my life, then so be it!" He let out a heart-wrenching sob and collapsed onto the ground. It was a nice way to emphasize his statement. The love of his life was indeed sleep – for the moment. Gloria Montague was probably a close second.

Plus, he was missing a sock. He had needed some dignified way to get on the floor so he could look for it under his bed. He saw it, trapped between his brooms –both top of the line, one imported all the way from Bulgaria, a sturdy practice broom, and a Quadpot broom, imported from the Americas, which is lighter and smaller than Quidditch brooms, giving him a spectacular advantage as a seeker - and several textbooks, from his current position.

"Stop being so melodramatic and get dressed! You're going to be late," his friend snapped as he walked across the room.

Melodramatic. Yes, that word described Regulus Black. He had a knack for exaggeration. He liked to tell tall tales. His mother told him he needed to quell his imagination – imagination was not becoming for a Black.

Regulus sneered. "Big word - for you - melodramatic is. Been reading the dictionary?"

Barty did not reply. Regulus groped around under his bed, shuddering when his hand hit something cold and slimy, and pulled out his sock. He stared glumly at the snitches zooming around the blue sock. It did not match the sock he was currently wearing, which was black and grey argyle, but he supposed it would work. No one would look at his feet that much anyway.

Regulus, currently in mismatched socks, lovely burgundy boxers, and bent over his trunk looking for pants, noticed something odd. He shifted his belonging around in the trunk once more. Then he removed his belonging from his oak trunk. No, what he had noticed was indeed true. All of his pants were missing. His good pants. His twenty-three galleon pants. His lightweight wool and silk blend pants. With prefect creases and belt loops that never ripped or tore.

"Hey, Barty," he called, pushing a brown and orange sweater back into its place, "Where…are my pants?"

"Oh, now you want my help?" Barty's voice came from the bathroom.

Regulus asked again, avoiding the question. Barty knew the answer already. "Where are my pants? They've all gone missing."

"Where?" asked Barty as he walked back into the room and leaned against his bedpost. He was messing with his hair again.

Regulus frowned, "Well I don't know where they've gone missing to; that is why they're missing."

"Your Pants?" Barty asked again, giving him that look.

"Pants," Regulus confirmed, resisting the urge to be snarky. Honestly, he wondered, did Barty not hear him say pants the first two times?

Barty shook his head slowly "No, I haven't. Check over there though," he waved his arms vaguely towards the ceiling. Regulus looked up, for some off reason expecting to find his pants hanging on the light fixtures, "Mcnair did say something about a ritual…"

"With my pants?" Regulus asked wide-eyed. What the hell? What kind of ritual involved pants? Regulus knew Mcnair was an odd person, ever since the incident involving some Gryffindor named Mary, but he did not expect him to be stealing another man's pants!

"I suppose so," Barty was looking around the room, squinting. Regulus thought Barty needed glasses, squinting like that was never a very good sign for your eyes. "There they are." He nodded toward them, "Thought you'd be able to find them quickly with your eagle eyes."

There they were, on Mcnair's bed. Regulus approached the bed cautiously, stepping over the mess of candy, dirty clothes, and Quidditch equipment that littered the boys' floor, as one never knew what to expect with Mcnair. He peered at his pants, aghast at the sight before him. They, his precious twenty-three galleon lightweight wool and silk blend pants, were wrapped around a raggedy stuffed animal. He stared at the tangled lump and wondered what, exactly, Mcnair had been doing. Regulus was going to have to have a chat with him. He was not looking forward to it.

"You're going to be late."

"I know, you already told me! Stop nagging. " Regulus snapped, "I swear you're worse than my mother."

That was not true. No one was worse than his mother.

"Right, well, see you in class then, Son," Barty snickered. Regulus resisted the urge to throw Mcnair's quaffle at the back of Barty's head, put was placated when he saw Barty trip over a spare potions book.

He swore to himself. Regulus knew he could not let Barty have the last word in their Slytherin battle of wit.

"Class begins when I've got my pants on!" He yelled, shaking his fist in the air.

He very nearly cringed. That was all he could come up with. He was losing his touch. Regulus knew it. And he knew Barty knew it. He bet Barty knew he knew that he knew it. But he needed to stand by what he said; he needed to win.

Barty paused in the doorway, hand resting on the molding, before snorting and leaving. Regulus thought it was odd how often Barty snorted – he had never noticed it before.

Regulus, stuffed animal in hand, began the difficult task of removing his new, expensive pants from said stuffed animal. He was not sure what type of ritual Mcnair was doing, or why it involved a stuffed groundhog and his pants, and he briefly wondered if he should be worried about germs or being infected by odd diseases. With a shrug, he put his pants on, one leg at a time like everyone else, and went to brush his teeth.

Happy with his minty-fresh breath, Regulus looked at his watch. It was a rather nice silver pocket watch. He was not old enough to get a real wizards' watch yet, so this one had to do. His heart seemed to stop beating. Three minutes until Transfiguration began. If he was late… He grabbed his bag, which had cost twenty galleons, and shoved a ream of parchment and a book into it. He hoped it was his Transfiguration book. Regulus did not know where his own Transfiguration book had gone, lost it some weeks ago.

So in a tizzy over being late, he nearly forgot to grab his tie before he bolted out the dorms.

Four. That is how many times he almost died on his way to class. Well, maybe he was being dramatic again. He should take up acting. Regulus figured he would be good at it.

Dramatic flair or not, his journey to Transfiguration - sometimes referred to as Tranny Class in his head - had not been an easy one. As he stood in the doorway to the classroom, he told the tale of his lateness, beginning with the first incident.

He, he told the Professor, had not even made it out of the common room unscathed. Regulus, despite his skills as a Seeker and notoriety as one of the best spell dodgers in the school, managed to hit his shoulder on the common room entry wall, which sent him toward an imminent collision with the dungeon floor. Luckily, his wrist had been the only victim of that fall. He was inspecting it, as he ran – no, walked with quick and practiced ease only a pureblood could manage – through the halls.

It was then_,_ as he was rubbing his aching wrist, that his treacherous shoes began to act up. They, of their own volition, untied and tripped him. Well, Regulus swore they untied – though he was not sure if he had tied them when he had put them on.

There he was Pure and Cunning Regulus Arcturus Black, flailing around the hallway and trying to regain his balance. His bag fell from his shoulder, further upsetting his already delicate balance, causing him to flap his wings like a chicken. The clumsy movement quickly changed the momentum of the bag, sending it straight into the face of another poor soul roaming the halls, and causing all of Regulus' inkbottles to shatter upon impact.

A very unnatural sound had come from Regulus' mouth as he tried to save his dignity in front of a group third year Hufflepuffs that had been watching the fiasco unfold. That was the first time Regulus had ever been laughed at by a younger year, or a Hufflepuff. Regulus muttered a quick sorry to the witch he had hit, beyond mortified.

His face red with embarrassment, he stalked off only to become aware that he had gone in the wrong direction. He walked past the third year Hufflepuffs once more, their every laugh like a silver knife to the heart. Regulus wanted to die.

Regulus decided to forgo all pretenses and began to run to class. He took the stairs two at a time, becoming aware of the trick step almost too late. He managed an impressive leap over five stairs, instead of two, but muddled the landing. While his Seeker reflexes had saved him from becoming trapped in the stair, they did not keep him from landing on top of Filch. Or a detention, which Regulus was sure Filch could not technically give him. But, pressed for time and in no mood to argue, Regulus accepted the detention and hurried on his way, Mrs. Norris yowling after him.

His run in with Filch, a dirty nasty Squib, had left Regulus visibly flustered and distracted. If Regulus had learned anything at all his time at Hogwarts, it was "Don't be distracted while running through the halls." Forgetting this simple rule led poor Regulus straight into a suit of armor.

All of Hogwarts, he decided as he tried to tug his tie free of the metal plates, was conspiring against him today. His tie would not budge. As he tried to pry his tie out Regulus was reminded of the time, when he was eight, his cloak had been shut in the door of a carriage, which had promptly started to roll away dragging him along behind it.

Regulus gave the silver and green tie one last good yank, finally freeing it and landing promptly on his ass, the knight clattering to the ground after him. The gauntlet, he recalled the name of the piece to be, ricocheted off the ground and into his face – giving him a rather extraordinary bloody nose. He glowered at the scene before him, his poor tie worse for the wear, before collecting himself in the manner only purebloods can achieve and walking the final thirty yards to the Transfiguration classroom.

So, it was after these events transpired that he arrived no less than fifteen minutes late to McGonagall's Transfiguration class, his aristocratic face red from exertion, huffing and puffing. He wondered, very briefly, if he had asthma. He dismissed the thought quickly – asthma was and inherited Mudblood disease, he would never have it.

"- and that is why I am late," he finished, exhaling heavily, having finished his tale of adventure.

"Very well Mister Black. However, this is your second lateness to my class this semester. It seems tardiness is becoming a habit. Detention tonight, eight pm and five points from Slytherin," his classmates groaned and Regulus fought the urge to duck his head in shame, "Please take your seat and refrain from interrupting my class further."

Detention tonight at eight meant he would have to miss Quidditch practice. He shivered at the thought of telling Rodolphus he would not be there. Their match against Gryffindor was coming up quickly, only four months away now, so they had a lot of training they needed to cram in.

Regulus, aware of all the eyes on him, reluctantly took the only open seat, next to his best friend Creepy Pant Stealer Mcnair. Regulus' eyes never left the dark haired boy sitting next to him. Regulus fumbled with his tie, knotting it several times before giving up completely and leaving it to hang limply around his neck.

He extracted his book – out of the corner of his eye he saw it was _Sensational Senses : Your Guide to Tapping Your Inner Eye,_ not, as he had hoped, his Transfiguration book – and several pieced of severely crumpled and torn (and dirty) pieces of parchment from his bag, all while his light eyes seemed to bore into Mcnair's very soul. Mcnair, for his part, was trying not to look uncomfortable under Regulus' angry stare and eyed Regulus' tattered, ink covered quill with unease. Regulus' hand gripped very tightly around it, his knuckles white.

"What?" he snapped, scribbling furiously. He silently willed Mcnair's head to explode. Several Ravenclaws behind him shushed him but became silent after he leveled them with a lovely sneer.

Mcnair looked affronted at Regulus' tone. "What's got your Niffler?"

Regulus huffed, annoyed. "Got my Niffler? Got my – you!" Regulus said, his quill hovering over his parchment, the volume of his voice steadily rising, along with the octave.

"Me!" Mcnair's cry of indignation caused McGonagall to stop her lesson and glare at the two boys. Mcnair apologized quickly, glowering at the back of the teachers head once she returned to her demonstration. His voice significantly lower than before, Mcnair asked out the side of his mouth, "What did I do? Not my fault you can't tie a tie or bring the right book."

"This isn't about my tie you dunderhead," Regulus said in a harsh whisper, "This is about you and your stupid, idiotic decision to steal my pants."

"It's not stupid or idiotic," Mcnair said waspishly, "you've got the best pants, all silky and expensive-like, everyone knows that, and Cindy's important to me." Mcnair was writing so hard his paper ripped.

Regulus stared at the torn paper, letting Mcnair's words sink in. Around him he could hear the scratching of quills as McGonagall answered Linus Belby's question, "If you don't have this done by the end of the period – I'll have Filch hang you over the scorpion pit." Regulus eyes snapped to his professor. Had he heard that right? A scorpion pit? In Hogwarts?

He sighed.

"Cindy?" he asked, turning his attention back to his classmate. "I thought you were using them for some sort of ritual…."

"Are we not talking about that same thing?" Mcnair asked cautiously. He glanced sideways to observe Regulus. "I only borrowed a pair for my…liaison with Cindy."

Regulus frowned deeply and refrained from shrugging; it was undignified. He did not want to know what happened, especially since he was wearing said pants now. In all honesty, he was beginning to second guess his decision to put them on.

"Listen, Mcnair," he paused and chewed his lip, unsure of how exactly to continue. "I just want to know why there was a groundhog in my pants."

Mcnair's eyes went as wide as saucers and his lips pressed together in a thin, stern line. Silence reigned in the room. In fact, it was too silent. No one was talking. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Regulus scanned the room. Several Ravenclaws were trying not to laugh; a few others looked mildly revolted.

At once, he knew.

Slowly, so torturously slow, he turned around to face McGonagall, who stood behind him, hands on her waist, and mouth pinched.

It was with a sinking feeling that Regulus realized everyone had heard his last statement, which, if he admitted it to himself, sounded strange in any context – let only without one.

"It's a big groundhog," he said matter of factly, arching an eyebrow.

Dear god, did he really just say that? Was that an innuendo? It sure sounded like one. Horrified, Regulus realized the implications of his statement. It sounded like he had just made a pass at his teacher. He schooled a blank expression on his face. He heard people snickering in the background.

McGonagall's lips tightened even more, though Regulus was sure he saw them quirk into a tiny smile.

"Minus ten points from Slytherin. I think that is a record for you Mister Black. Speak in class again and you will be speaking with the Headmaster." She gave him a pointed look. If he were Sirius he would have gotten away with it, he was sure of that. Sirius got away with everything. Everyone thought he was charming and lovable. Regulus sneered. It was not fair – he was just as good looking and charming as his brother; he could weave a tale of wonder and excitement just as well as his brother; and above all, Regulus was still inheriting the Black family fortune, unlike his brother.

House bias obviously colored McGonagall's disciplinary methods.

His fellow Slytherins scowled darkly at him. They were only 50 points behind Gryffindor and they had wanted to win the cup this year. Now, thanks to him, they were 65 points behind Gryffindor.

Regulus wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

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